Flashfire: A Parker Novel (Parker Novels)

175 Pages·2011·0.68 MB·English

by  Richard Stark

Richard Stark
Flashfire
ONE
1
When the dashboard clock read 2:40, Parker drove out of the drugstore
parking lot and across the sunlit road to the convenience store/gas station.
He stopped beside the pumps, the only car here, hit the button to pop the
trunk lid, and got out of the car. A bright day in July, temperature in the
low seventies, a moderate-sized town not two hundred miles from Omaha, a
few shoppers driving past in both directions. A dozen blocksaway, Melander
and Carlson and Ross would be just entering the bank.
The car, a forgettable dark gray Honda Accord, took nine point seven two
gallons of gasoline. The thin white surgical gloves he wore as he pumped the
gas looked like pale skin.
When the tank was full, he screwed the gas cap back on and opened the
trunk. Inside were some old rags and an empty glass one-point-seven-five-
liter jug of Jim Beam bourbon. He filled the bottle with gasoline, then
stuffed one of the rags into the top, lit the rag with a Zippo lighter, and
heaved the bottle overhand through the plate-glass window of the
convenience store. Then he got into the Honda and drove away, observing
the speed limit. 2:47. Parker made the right turn onto Tulip Street. Back at
the bank, Ross would be controlling the customers and employees, while
Melander and Carlson loaded the black plastic trash bags with cash.
Farther downtown, the local fire company would be responding to the
explosion and fire with two pumpers, big red beasts pushing out of their red
brick firehouse like aggravated dinosaurs.
The white Bronco was against the curb where Parker had left it, in front
of a house with a For Sale sign on the lawn and all the shades drawn. Parker
pulled into the driveway there, left the Honda, and walked to the Bronco. At
this point, Melander and Ross would have the bags of money by the door,
the civilians all facedown on the floor behind the counter, while Carlson
went for their car; their very special car, just around the corner.
When there's an important fire, the fire department responds with
pumpers or hook and ladders, but also responds with the captain in his own
vehicle, usually a station wagon or sports utility truck, painted the same
cherry red as the fire engines, mounted with red flashing light and howling
siren. Last night, Parker and the others had taken such a station wagon
from a town a hundred miles from here, and now Carlson would be getting
behind the wheel of it, waiting for the fire engines to race by.
Parker slid into the Bronco, peeled off the surgical gloves, and stuffed
them into his pants pocket. Then he started the engine and drove two blocks
closer to where he'd started, parking now in front of a weedy vacant lot.
Near the bank, the fire engines would be screaming by, and Carlson would
bring the station wagon out fast in their wake, stopping in front of the bank
as Melander and Ross came running out with the full plastic bags.
Parker switched the scanner in the Bronco to the local police frequency
and listened to all the official manpower in town ordered to the convenience
store on the double. They'd all be coming now, fire engines, ambulances,
police vehicles; and the fire captain's station wagon, its own siren screaming
and red dome light spinning in hysterics. 2:53 by this new dashboard clock.
It should be now. Parker looked in the rearview mirror, and the station
wagon, as red as a firecracker in all this sunlight, came modestly around the
corner back there, its lights and siren off.
Parker wasn't the driver; Carlson was. Leaving the Bronco engine on, he
stepped out of it and went around to open the luggage door at the back, as
the captain's car stopped beside him. A happy Melander in the back seat
handed out four plastic bags bulging with paper, and Parker tossed them in
the back. Then Carlson drove ahead to park in front of the Bronco while
Parker shut the luggage door and got into the back seat, on the street side.
Ahead, the three were getting out of the captain's car, stripping off the
black cowboy hats and long tan dusters and white surgical gloves they'd
worn on the job, to make them all look alike for the eyewitnesses later. They
tossed all that into the back seat of the station wagon, then came trotting
this way. They were all grinning, like big kids. When the job goes right,
everybody's up, everybody's young, everybody's a little giddy. When the job
goes wrong, everybody's old and nobody's happy.
Carlson got behind the wheel, Melander beside him, Ross in back with
Parker. Ross was a squirrelly short guy with skin like dry leather; when he
grinned, like now, his face looked like a khaki road map. 'We havin' fun
yet?' he asked, and Carlson put the Bronco in gear.
Parker said, as they drove deeper into town, 'I guess everything went
okay in there.'
'You'd have thought,' Carlson told him, 'they'd rehearsed it.'
Melander, a brawny guy with a large head piled with wavy black hair,
twisted around in his seat to grin back at Parker and say, 'Move away from
the alarm; they move away from the alarm. Put your hands on your head;
they put their hands on their heads.'
Carlson, with a quick glance at Parker in the rearview mirror, said,
'Facedown on the floor; guess what?'
Ross finished, 'We didn't even have to say, "Simon says."'
Carlson took the right onto Hyacinth. It looked like just another
residential cross street, but where all the others stopped at or before the city
line, this one went on to become a county route through farmland that
eventually linked up with a state road that soon after that met an interstate.
By the time the law back in town finished sorting out the fire from the
robbery, trying to guess which way the bandits had gone, the Bronco would
be doing seventy, headed east.
Like most drivers, Carlson was skinny. He was also a little edgy-looking,
with jug ears. Grinning again at Parker in the mirror, he said, 'That was
some campfire you lit.'
'It attracted attention,' Parker agreed.
Ross, his big smile aimed at the backs of the heads in front of him, said,
'Boyd? Hal? Are we happy?' Melander twisted around again. 'Sure,' he
said, and Carlson said, 'Tell him.'
Parker said, 'Tell him? Tell me?' What was wrong here? His piece was
inside his shirt, but this was a bad position to operate from. 'Tell me what?'
he said, thinking, Carlson would have to be taken out first. The driver.
But Ross wasn't acting like he was a threat; none of them were. His smile
still big, Ross said, 'We had to know if we were gonna get along with you.
And we had to know if you were gonna get along with us. But now we all
think it's okay, if you think it's okay. So what I'm gonna do is tell you about
the job.'
Parker looked at him. 'We just did the job,' he said.
'Not that,' Ross said, dismissing the bank job with a wave of the hand.
'That wasn't the job. You know what that was? That was the financingfor
the job.'
'The job,' Melander added, 'the real job, is not nickel-dime. Not like this.'
'The real job,' Ross said, 'is worthy of our talents.' Parker looked from
one to another. He didn't know these people. Was this something, or was it
smoke and mirrors? Was this what Hurley had almost but not quite
mentioned? 'I think,' he said, 'you ought to tell me about the job.'
2
It had started with a phone call, through a cutout. Parker returned the
call from a pay phone and recognized Tom Hurley's voice when he said,
'You busy?'
'Not in particular,' Parker said. 'How's the wing?' Because the last time
they'd been together, in a town called Tyler, Hurley had wound up shot in
the arm and had been taken out of the action by a friend of his named
Dalesia.
Hurley laughed, not as though he was amused but as though he was
angry. 'Fucked me a little,' he said. 'I feel it in cold weather.'
'Stay where it's warm.'
'That's what I'm doing. In fact, that's why I'm calling.'
Parker waited. After a little dead air, Hurley did his laugh again and said,
'You never were much for small talk.'
Parker waited. After a shorter pause, Hurley cleared his throat and said,
'It's a thing with some people I don't think you know.'
'I know you.'
'Well, that's just it, I won't be there. If you want it, you're taking my
place.'
'Why?'
'I got a better something come up, offshore. I'm fixing to be a
beachcomber. A rich beachcomber.'
'Because of the arm,' Parker suggested.
'That, too,' Hurley agreed. 'These three are good boys. They know how to
count at the end of the day, you know what I mean.'
Parker knew what he meant; they wouldn't try to hog it all, at the end of
the day. He said, 'Why don't I know them? They civilians?'
'No, they just work different places, different people, you know how it is.
But then, it could pan out with them, and then you know them, and who
knows.'
'Who knows what?'
'What happens next,' Hurley said.
Letting that go, Parker said, 'Where are they now?'
'They move around, like people do,' Hurley told him. 'Lately, they're
based around the Northwest somewhere, or maybe Vancouver. Over there
someplace.'
'Is that where this thing is?'
'No, they like to work away from home.' So did Parker. He said, 'Not
around me.'
'No, in the Midwest, one of those flat states out there. I told them about
you. If you're interested I'll give you a number.'
So one thing led to another, and here he was in the back of the Bronco
with Melander and Carlson and Ross, and after all he was going to be told
the who-knows that Hurley hadn't wanted to talk about.
3
'It's jewelry,' Ross said.
Parker wasn't impressed. 'That's a dime on the dollar, if you're lucky.'
'That's right,' Ross said, 'that's what we'll get.'
Melander said, 'We got three buyers, ready to go. That's what they all
give us.'
Parker said, 'Three?'
'There's too much for one fence,' Ross explained.
Parker was beginning to get interested. 'What are we talking about here?'
Carlson steered them up onto the interstate ramp as Ross said, 'Four of
us will walk home'
'Ride home,' Melander corrected him. 'In a limo.'
'Right,' Ross agreed. 'Four of us will ride home with three hundred grand
apiece.'
Parker looked from Ross to Melander and back.
They both seemed serious, if happy. Nobody in the car was taking any
mood changers. He said, 'This is twelve million in jewelry?'
'That's the floor,' Ross said. 'That's the appraisal. It's a charity sale. If we
let it alone, it'll go higher, but what we'll get is the floor.'
'A charity sale. Where?'
'Palm Beach,' Ross said.
Parker shook his head. 'Deal me out.'
Ross said, 'You don't want to listen to the job?'
'I just heard the job,' Parker told him. 'Twelve million in jewelry all in
one place draws a lot of attention. Cops, private cops, guards, sentries,
probably dogs, definitely helicopters, metal-detecting machines, all of that.
Then you put it in Palm Beach, which has more police per square inch than
anywhere else on earth. They're allrich in Palm Beach, and they all want to
stay that way. And besides that, it's an island, with three narrow bridges,
they can seal that place like it's shrink-wrap.'
'All of this is true,' Ross said. 'But we got a way in, and we got a way at,
and we got a way out.'
'Then I still know the job,' Parker told him, 'and I still don't want it.'
Melander said, 'Just out of curiosity, why?'
'Because to even think about doing your job,' Parker told him, 'and to do
it in Palm Beach, there's two things you got to have. One is the insider,